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away
from Zanther and Novanostrum and crowd around Varello, flicking
their long, forked tongues in anger.

    Zanther and Novanostrum take this opportunity
to stealthily back away from the crowd and then run towards the
exit.

    Varello reaches inside the breast pocket of
his coat and produces a small wooden flute.

Chapter 6: Zweissergrund

    Zanther and Novanostrum tromp up the
snow-covered path, spotting an idyllic mountain village like
something out of a fairy tale. The log buildings are immaculate,
with cheerful children and smiling wives visible in the windows. In
the distance, they can see a ski lodge with rosy-cheeked tourists
puffing out clouds of steam. Zanther and Novanostrum look at each
other, horrified, and they keep walking up the path toward the
pagoda-shaped pagoda perched ominously at the top of a nearby
mountain.

    “Let’s just find these monks and make tracks
to somewhere warm,” Zanther says.

    “You realize you’re traveling with a
world-class wizard. There’s no reason either of us should
needlessly suffer this infernal climate.”

    “Yeah, so what can you do? Magick the sun a
little closer? Apparate me some whiskey? Summon a centaur and cut
it open so I can climb inside?”

    Novanostrum reaches up his sleeve and pulls
out a very, very long scarf and hands it to Zanther.

    “Gee…thanks.”

    The butler leads Madra and D’kassar into
Slotterhaus’ office. He’s a squat man, and the top of his head is
devoid of hair.

    “You! I hear you used to be a Nasonic monk. I
also hear you’re pretty handy with a powderblast,” he says to
D’kassar, “I could really use a ski instructor with those kinds of
skills.”

    “And you,” he says, turning his gaze to
Madra, “I bet there’s a job here for you, too.”

    They reach the giant stone temple and pound
on the double doors. Inside, Zanther hears strange shouting and
grunting. Novanostrum can hear footsteps on the other side of the
door. They wait for the doors to open.

    After three solid minutes, nothing happens.
Zanther pounds on the doors again.

    They look at each other, both of them getting
irritated and confused. Zanther tries pulling the door open, only
to find it locked. Novanostrum telekinetically moves the springs
and gears in the lock, trying to force the mechanism open. They
hear a click, and Zanther tries the door again. Again, nothing
happens.

    Novanostrum inspects the door handle, the
hinges and the lock.

    “Damned thing is welded shut.”

    “Guess these guys don’t get out much,”
Zanther says.

    “Well, how do we get in?” Novanostrum asks as
they both hear an ear-splitting scream.

    “Are we sure we want to?”

    Skyships
    Skyships were the brainchild of Nardolo di
Medizzo (actually, the skyship was one of his many brainchildren),
created when he tried to throw up into a sack after a white wine
binge, but burped instead. The air made the bag rise and, a few
months later, the first skyship took flight. Over time, the crew of
wino belchers was replaced by more efficient means, and an industry
took shape.

    Novanostrum sits a few yards away, puffing at
his pipe and looking over the façade of the building. Zanther has
his ear pressed to the wall, listening to the strange shouting and
grunting inside.

    The wall in front of them is solid stone,
flat, and forty feet high. Above that is a small roof, and the next
floor is indented inward five or six feet, in true pagoda fashion.
All told, the building is seven stories high, all stone, and no
windows.

    “Can’t you blast a hole in this wall with a
lightning bolt or something?”

    “Yeah. They’ll be really eager to help us if
I do that.”

    “I mean, they’re just monks. We could
probably rough them up a little. No big deal.”

    “Here’s my thinking, Zanther. There are
living people in there, so they’ve got to get food and water and
oxygen, so it’s logical to assume that people go in and out of this
building.”

    “You’re saying there must be another